Hello Peeps
I don’t know about you but I’ve grown a lot recently. I have come “into my own” as they say. What does that mean? Well to me it means I have arrived. What does that mean you may irritatingly still ask – well to me it means I know what I am about and at this point in time, if you don’t know what I mean then go see a shrink.
Yet seriously, I am now at the stage in my life where I really cannot tolerate nonsense. I can quite comfortably speak up and defend myself quite eloquently, thank you very much without doing the Ghetto thing of getting abusive and aggressive, whilst moving my head from side to side like some cobra and behaving like a hoe who has not got paid.
There have been many occasions when my two boys have told me that “I will get stabbed oneday – because I don’t mind my business.” To which I have often retorted, that in no way whatsoever, would I endanger their lives never mind my own, but by the same token I sometimes feel the need to “react” or as they say on the street - to speak up for my rights and for what one believes in. For me now peeps, it’s all about truth and justice. (Get off your high horse, I hear some of you hissing – Yeah and who’s gonna come get me? I challenge back). I don’t scare easily anymore. Tough as a piece of hard-dough bread I am. Believe me peeps, when I say my hard-dough bread can mash up bricks. I think I’ve got to go back to doing home economics again.
I am usually forced to react, sometimes rather badly in the following situations. This is usually when I get on public transport or when I am just minding my own business walking down the street and certain individuals are behaving badly. So badly that I am sure our ancestors must surely be turning in their graves. There is so much disrespect, not only to themselves but also to general members of the public that sometimes, I wish I were a boomerang, made of steel, flint, iron and bone and you know that when I get flung, I am going to go out there and whirl myself hard, so hard that once I come into contact with anything, it will be all over for them. Six foot under and a pile of dried flowers would be the prize. So there they are – a group of rowdy, bad mouthed, illiterate, gangster styled, baggy-pooh-in-trousers-down-by knees, ill dressed, foul mouthed (not finished yet peeps just a few more descriptive), loud-mouthed – and those are the adults I have not even started on the young people yet – all taking up space.
Often times I am so incensed by what comes out of their mouths and also by their unruly behaviour that I react by swinging myself around, with my one good eye and giving them that “I am appalled look.” Back in the day – I could never, ever cut eye or even back chat to a relative never mind a stranger. I’d be dead before I reached home to face my parents, because every adult on that bus would beat my carcasses stiff.
Believe me peeps, it is not often intentional for me to challenge, but like I said, it is often a reaction to which I could quite easily be set upon, by these, individuals and carved into mincemeat to chants of “kill the bit…” If an occasion were to ever arise that my body was disposed off in such a horrific and selfish way, all because I was standing up for what I believed in then oh wise ones my spirit would surely live on to haunt their carcasses forever and a day.
I am sure many would end up hovering on the top of London Bridge staring at the murky waters singing “oh I do like to be beside the seaside” whilst the more luckier ones would be screaming like banshees every time they were served up a plate of spaghetti bolognaise and believe me peeps, when I say that they would experience hallucinations so fierce “Mum, the mince has eyes” that the medical professional would have to send them to the electric chair.
Yet sometimes, I do let satan talk to me, ever so quietly not often, but I really would like to be put in a position to challenge these yout dem. I would really like to see how far they would go, so that I could go vigilante. Yep peeps, just imagine – Moi – in the camouflage army pants, my face totally blackened out (still got to be careful in case I don’t finish them off properly and they recognise me from their hospital bed) with my sleeveless tank top on and bomber jacket. They call me “Death” – simple really. This would be time for me to call up my “possy” “The Over Forties Dead Ringers” who would strip these individuals naked, tie them to a tree or tie them to the back of a buss and then drag their carcasses around the town centre then beat their backsides into a pulp whilst adding vinegar and lemon to their wounds. Then it would be time to put them in a sauna for a while whilst my “possy” and I pay a visit to Aunt Edna’s café to have a cuppa tea with a digestive, if you please luv.
After an hour or so in the sauna, it would be time to take them to the Police Station, to get them finger printed so that a mug shot could be put on Youtube to expose them.
Like they say different strokes for different blokes. It’s time for some people to wake up and smell the roses, because all this bad behaviour will not be tolerated for very long. People are getting real fed-up with having to put up and shut up. Like I say peoples, it’s time to wake up and smell the roses.
